


build me a city (and call it jerusalem)

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, the government fucking sucks, well kind of anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-19
Updated: 2014-10-19
Packaged: 2018-02-21 20:03:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2480666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The way Derek sees it, they'd all be screwed if the supernatural among them weren't immune to whatever it is that's put the country in a state of perpetual turmoil. He's lost track of how many times he's had to slit someones throat and flush the blood caked beneath his claws down the drain of the sink. Sometimes it's too much, for all of them. Stiles especially.</p>
            </blockquote>





	build me a city (and call it jerusalem)

**Author's Note:**

> i suppose i do owe a warning for the death of a major character. it's nothing too bad, but it might be a little bit of a tear jerker.

–

 

 

 

_We have come back from Jerusalem where we found not_

_what we sought, so do it over. Give me another version,_

_a different room, another hallway, the kitchen painted over_

_and over, another bowl of soup. The entire history of human_

_desire takes about seventy minutes to tell. Unfortunately,_

_we don’t have that kind of time._

 

–

 

The world ends on a Monday, as if anything could be any more ironic.

 

Stiles claims that he saw it coming all along, and Derek finds that he can't really bring himself to disagree. The kid has always been smarter than most of the rest of them, an, as he likes to call it, Intuition for All Things Evil built into his brain. Capital letters included. No one else really sees it coming, unless you count the government. The government that does not breathe a word of the deadly toxins they've got brewing in some underground facility until it's too late, and the entire fucking continent is alight with chaos. Naturally DC goes first, but the rest is soon to follow. Derek had friends in New York, which everyone seems to find amusing. Derek Hale? Having friends? Remarkable. But he does. Did. And they called ahead, warned him that something terrible was coming. Told him that he needed to get his pack ready for real hell, worse than anything they'd ever faced. More horrifying than Alpha packs, darachs, foxes that possess teenage boys, and assassins.

 

Because Derek is stupid, he pacifies them, but he doesn't tell anyone about the call. Anyone but Stiles, anyway.

 

Stiles... is disturbed by it. Neither of them knows what it means. The information is too vague, too nondescript. Of course, when the information finally blows in from the mid-west, everything has sort of hit the fan.

 

They all do what they can to salvage the strong and the brave when the virus gets to them, but.

 

A lot of people die. Too many, really. Miss Springfield from down the street catches the virus, and they all have to watch her wither away into this frothing, angry creature. She used to babysit Derek and Laura when they were younger, so he can't find it in himself to kill her. In the end, it's Stiles that puts the bullet between her eyes. Stiles who walks away wiping blood from his brow, keeping his hands far away from his eyes, mouth, nose – any orifice that could give the virus pathogens a gateway into his human immune system. Stiles that tells them they have to pack up everything that means anything to them and get the hell out of Dodge.

 

–

 

The way Derek sees it, they'd all be screwed if the supernatural among them weren't immune to whatever it is that's put the country in a state of perpetual turmoil. He's lost track of how many times he's had to slit someones throat and flush the blood caked beneath his claws down the drain of the sink. Sometimes it's too much, for all of them. Stiles especially. They're not sure, not at first, it's too early to tell, probably doesn't mean anything, could be just a normal cold, the excuses go on – but the sheriff is starting to show signs of the virus. Skin pallid, thinning, wrinkling around the eyes in cracks and lines. Derek catches Stiles looking at him sometimes with pain etched into the blown pupils of his eyes, teeth biting his nails down to the nub before he floats out of the abandoned house they've taken refuge in. Like he can't stand to be in the same room while his dad is coughing and wiping the blood on his pants when he thinks no one is watching.

 

And Derek gets it. Gets how it must be a lot like being eleven again, keeping vigilance at his mother's bedside, watching her fade to nothing. Just blinking out of existence one day, leaving a hole where her presence would have been.

 

“We need to do it before things get any worse.” Stiles tells him one day, hovering at the door of the bedroom Derek has taken to. No clarification is needed. Sad, isn't it? That Derek knows exactly what he's talking about without having to ask. That they all know. Melissa stays with the sheriff, most days, forces him to rest. Scott is with Stiles a lot, too. A distraction from the inevitable. They've let it go on for too long, honestly. Weeks. Small miracle that the sheriff hasn't turned so feral that he lashes out. His resolve and self control is admirable, but it won't last.

 

Stiles raps his knuckles against the door frame, vacant look in amber flames that burn craters into his face, islands of sleep deprivation. “I – it'll have to be one of you. I don't want to be there. So just... take him somewhere else, okay? Make sure you bury him.”

 

Derek casts a cursory glance at Stiles, who is looking directly at him. Beseeching. Asking him for this. For _Derek_ to do this for him. It's the least he can do, after all that Stiles has done for him. He nods. Stiles nods back, turns his head and stares down the empty hall. Empty. All empty, hollowed out in the center, desolate.

 

–

 

Burying isn't something they do a lot of. Time doesn't permit that kind of luxury. Some of the – the creatures can be kind of fast. Even for a werewolf, it takes a lot to stay out of their way. The process of digging and packing the dirt back in takes too long. For the first couple of kills they'd tried, but when the walkers started becoming more and more frequent, crawling from the buildings, flying at them with claws and mouths full of torn flesh, dripping blood, they'd all realized it was a lost cause. Better to leave the bodies behind, for the birds of prey, or whatever _got_ to them.

 

Derek does bury the sheriff though, as promised. He doesn't even put up a fight when Derek takes him out. He unhooks the gun from his belt with trembling, traitorous hands and extends it to a shocked looking Derek. His smile is all shaky and harsh, cracked lips peeling back to reveal yellowed, scraggly teeth. Rotting in his mouth just the same as the skin is rotting on his bones. Pretty soon, there will be no _sheriff_ left.

 

Not that they'll have to see that happen.

 

“Take it, son.” Derek does. Hates it. Hates the heavy weight of it in his hands. Hates having to lift it up and aim it. Hates that when he goes to pull the trigger back, the sheriff says, “take care of him for me,” and doesn't make a single sound more when the bullet sails right into his skull and out the back of his head. Derek, though. Derek sobs something awful, lets out a wrenching noise that stumbles him forward, eyes closed tight.

 

The whole process of digging the grave is mechanical. He starts around four in the afternoon, but by the time he's done the sun has long since disappeared behind the veil of the horizon. Lowering the body into the grave is difficult. Painful in a way that he hasn't known since he'd had to bury his parents, cousins, aunts, uncles. Sister.

 

Derek knows that Stiles isn't going to be the same. None of them will after this. Even Kira, who hadn't known the sheriff that long. Malia, too. They won't – because _Stiles_ won't. Stiles is kind of like their glue. Since the beginning, it's been him keeping his cool, calling the shots, making sure they stay virus free and safe, tucked away in the dark corners of empty buildings.

 

Coming back to the house, Derek finds Stiles as a quivering mess in his bed, sheets pulled high over his head. The corner lifts up when Derek comes to the edge, and he slides in. Molds himself to Stiles' back, presses a kiss to the nape of his neck, pulls him tight to his chest. Pretends he doesn't hear the sobs that wrack Stiles' entire body, because he knows that Stiles doesn't need patronizing words right now. What Stiles needs is exactly what Derek is offering him: a warm presence, someone to keep him grounded.

 

It's the least Derek can do.

 

–

 

After that, there's no point in sticking around. Derek never shows Stiles where the sheriff is buried, and Stiles never asks. They gather up all their weapons, all the things they need. Make a run to the grocery store where Scott, Liam, Derek, and Malia stand guard while Kira, Stiles, Lydia, and Melissa steal inside to grab whatever they can get their hands on. Canned goods that won't spoil, boxed meals. The promise of food in the future is too unsure, so they need to be proactive now.

 

Piling up into Derek's Toyota is a tight squeeze. Liam and Scott have to sit in the way, way back – but taking one car is for the best. They're less likely to be separated if they travel in a singular unit. The anchor of pack does a lot for their individual sanity. Beacon Hills disappears into the rear view mirror, and from the passenger seat, Stiles tells him to head as far south as they can get. Derek reaches out wordlessly, takes his hand, presses it to the console. Squeezes it. Stiles doesn't say anything.

 

–

 

Time tracks differently when they're on the road. All of it's familiar to Derek. He remembers being sixteen years old, sitting beside Laura in silence for hours at a time while they trekked across country with minimal stops. At night, everyone sleeps. Everyone but Stiles. Stiles stares out of the window and watches the scenery pass by in blurs of greens, blues, reds, yellows, sepia hues of sand. On rare occasion Derek will catch him staring his way, eyes fixed on the chiseled line of his jaw, the facial hair that's gotten slightly out of hand, but when the hell is he supposed to find the time to shave in the midst of all this shit? Even Stiles' baby face is sporting some pretty testing stubble.

 

Between the two of them they cycle the driving. Derek will do twelve hours, then Stiles will do twelve, maybe longer if he's too restless to sit still. Behind the wheel he's all tapping fingers and twitching legs, but over time, it stops. The life of him starts to dull. Derek hates to admit that he watches it happen and has no fucking _idea_ how to reverse the effects. During the daytime the silence of the car is sometimes too much.

 

“Sure could go for a cold shower right about now.” Lydia murmurs one time, fanning herself with the ripped off side of one of their meal boxes. Quiet follows before – Kira laughs, then Melissa, Scott, Liam, Malia, and even Derek finds himself with eyes rolling heavenward. When he turns, something that looks like a smile is twitching at the corners of Stiles' lips, and he's already looking at him. They share a soft look before Stiles averts his gaze back out of the window. Things feels lighter.

 

–

 

Driving isn't always peaceful. Traveling means that they naturally pass through some pretty depressing settings. The road has been their home for about two weeks the first time they drive right into the middle of a town that's the perfect backdrop for a post apocalyptic movie. Pillars of smoke in the distance, the creatures swarming the streets, bodies littering doorways, hanging from windows. Blood splattered on the sidewalks, trailing into buildings where the doors have been ripped off their hinges. Derek presses down onto the gas extra hard, and they push through with exactly no casualties.

 

Meeting people that haven't been contaminated is an occurrence that happens one time, just outside of New Mexico. There are three teenage girls looking worn down on the side of the road, one of them limping along, weight supported by the other two. The sight is pitiful. Stiles tells him to stop, jerks the steering wheel and swerves right off the road when Derek hesitates, forcing Derek to slam on breaks. Derek glares at him as he stumbles out of the car, rounding the front of it to get to the girls. They all crawl out after Stiles just in the case of any trouble.

 

“Have you–?” Stiles gestures at the injured girl's leg. For the first time in weeks there is more than blank acceptance in his eyes. Derek is thankful for that much. One of the girls shakes her head, clearing her throat.

 

“No – no, she's fine, she just... we were running, and her ankle. It got. _Twisted_.” Her voice is strained, words little more than a croak, like she hasn't been in the practice of using her vocal cords in a very long time. Derek looks down at the other girl's ankle, and winces. Lydia has a hand pressed to her mouth, likely holding back bile. Kira is wide eyed. Malia, for all that she still isn't all there, looks the slightest bit disturbed, and Liam's face might be comical in any other circumstance.

 

The bone of the girl's leg is sticking out of the skin, ligament and muscle visible where the flesh has been ripped clean off. It's wonder that the girl is even conscious, but Derek assumes that she must be numb to the pain by this point. No doubt that the wound is infected – even sterilizing it might not save the girl her foot, now.

 

Stiles bends down to the girl's level, where her head is hanging, heavy on her neck. “Hey – hey, you're gonna be okay, alright? All of you.” He meets the eyes of both of the other girls, words a vehement oath. They look like they might start crying any second now. “Me and my friends are going to – we're going to give you guys a lift. Do you have any family...?”

 

All three of them do start crying, then. One of them shakes her head. No. No, of course they don't. Derek's not even sure how the three of them are still alive.

 

Melissa offers to help clean them all up, rinsing dirt out of their cuts with a half full water bottle. Their last one. No one complains about it.

 

Stiles and Scott help the injured girl into the back of the car where Scott and Liam crawl into and stretch her leg out over their laps. She lets out a long, agonized cry of pain, body convulsing with it. The two of them press hands wherever bare skin is available to suck away the worst of it. The other girls double up in the backseat with Malia, Kira, Lydia, and Melissa. Back in the front seat, Derek glances at Stiles. He's different now. Sitting up completely straight, jaw tight, squared away. Eyes seething with purpose.

 

“We have to get them somewhere safe.” He whispers, wetting his dry and chapped lips. Looks at Derek from the corner of his eyes, balls his fists up in his lap. Derek is tried to do anything more than nod. They don't _know_ if there's anyplace safe even out there.

 

“Of course.”

 

But forward they go.

 

–

 

The girls' names are Claire, Nadia, and – here's the real kicker – the one with the messed up leg? Her name is _Allison_. Scott looks punched out when she offers it up to them, sweat beading on her brow. She looks concerned at his expression, the stunned, slack jawed way he regards her now.

 

“What is it?” She asks.

 

It's Lydia who speaks up, voice tight. Soft. “We knew someone named Allison. It was a long time ago. Before all of this. That didn't end well, either.”

 

The car gets eerily silent after that.

 

Stiles looks extremely uncomfortable. Stiff. Eyes straight ahead. No one brings it up.

 

–

 

They get to the border about three days later. Allison's pain has gotten to an extent that not even any amount of werwolf mojo can dissipate it. If she isn't passed out from the agony, she's groaning, whimpering with every bump, turn, acceleration. Derek is fearful that the infection has spread, _is_ spreading. His days of being willing to chop off limbs are behind him. So are Stiles', if the way he's constantly casting nervous glances to the backseat is anything to go by. As they draw closer to Mexico, the layout of the land begins to change. It's subtle at first. More living plants. Trees that aren't gnarled and bare. Grass that's green instead of yellow. Then it's bigger things – living crops, skies that are blue instead of murky gray and bloody red. He thinks he might hear Melissa sob with relief as, one by one, the others begin to take notice.

 

At the Mexican border, they get pulled over. Well – it's more like they get jerked out of the Toyota, shoved into a pristine brick building by men that, surprisingly, aren't Mexican. They're actually white, which means that the pack isn't the first group of people to make it this far. What it means is _hope_. They load Allison onto a gurney with enough wariness to supply a small militia, but Melissa assures them that she's clean. The wound is infected, she says, but she's been with them for at least a week and there have been no signs of turning. All of the doctors assent to treating her immediately, and as they roll her past Stiles she reaches out and snags his wrist.

 

“Thank you,” she says with a wane smile. “You saved my life. _All_ of our lives.”

 

They wheel her away, Stiles' eyes glued to her as she goes. The click of his throat is loud when he swallows, dry mouthed. Derek cups the base of his skull, scrapes his fingers through hair that has grown shaggy, and thinks _yeah_. _Yeah, you really did._

 

–

 

For several more days, they're kept in the facility. A mess of tests that prove their humanity (as much as something like that can be proved for the lot of them), and things get explained.

 

The government had been working on a medicine, a magical sort of cure all for every single disease known to man. Except the problem with it was that it wasn't exactly a cure at all – it was a deadly thing that they lost control of. Exposure to it of any degree was lethal, but the symptoms were slow coming. Initial tests they had run were all wrong – they were looking for signs of it to rise immediately, when in reality it developed over time. So they let all of these intoxicated people out into the open, and the toxin had taken its natural course. Spreading could be done only through direct contact with blood to open wounds, or any other bodily excrement. It would drive the poor, unsuspecting victim out of their mind until they were, essentially, no longer human at all.

 

Mexico is safe. No guarantee that it'll stay that way, but for now...

 

“Fucking Resident Evil bullshit.” Stiles mumbles, and Derek cracks up. Because, yeah. Pretty much.

 

–

 

“Kind of weird, isn't it?”

 

Stiles is standing in the doorway just like he did all of those weeks ago. Or have months gone by? Derek's not sure. They've been placed in a building maybe an hour away from the border. A little in between of sorts until further accommodations can be made for them. Lydia finally got her shower.

 

Derek rolls onto his back and looks at Stiles, head pillowed on his arms. He lifts his brow, and Stiles blows out a laugh. Or a scoff. Hard to tell.

 

“Come on, man, I thought we were finally starting to get somewhere.” Stiles says, coming into the room and closing the door behind him. The mattress dips when he sits down on it, hesitantly leaning over Derek, weight braced on his arm next to Derek's head. Their noses brush, breath shared between them. Intimacy is something they've both been deprived of for a long, long time – but it's probably more than that. Definitely more than that.

 

When their lips meet, Derek feels like everything has been leading up to this moment ever since Stiles had come to him and placed the burden of the sheriff's life, or ending thereof, on his shoulders. Derek surges up and flips them, anchoring Stiles and his frantic hands as they shove under his shirt, rake down his back, dig into his skin.

 

Searching for something he lost a long time ago. Nine years, maybe.

 

He digs the start of fresh nails into the black ink staining Derek's skin impure, kisses like he's fighting a losing battle, and Derek knows that his job isn't to put Stiles back together. No, his job is to reconstruct entirely. Just like they'll have to make new lives from scratch out here, he'll build a new Stiles. A better Stiles. Not a Stiles that needs him, but a Stiles that will like it when they share the same oxygen. Derek breaks the war between their lips, forehead resting on Stiles', and nods. Nods, and nods, and nods while tracks of tears wash Stiles' sins clean, while he trembles and cracks and leaves himself bare.

 

“We are. We are getting somewhere.”

 

Then he presses Stiles into the mattress until he shakes apart, and they can finally start all over again.

 


End file.
